


scream hallelujah (if it helps you breathe)

by Wade (monzi)



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Brufonse Week 2019, M/M, bruno is a shit and he knows it, ike is there, im 2 days late but whos counting, prince-ing is just like riding a bike, really i see no difference, slap my ass and throw me on the long haired young bruno bandwagon, to alfonse's great despair, you gain a crippling fear of intimacy, you lose your best friend in mysterious circumstances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-10-28 00:02:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20769164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monzi/pseuds/Wade
Summary: Zacharias knows what he looks like, seeing as he owns a mirror (and in Alfonse's educated opinion may be overly attached to it), and figured out long ago that it can be an advantage. Unfortunately, he's trying it on someone who knew him before and during the time his voice broke. On his best days, Alfonse is as good as immune to it. He need only pick one out of a lifetime of ridiculous memories, and one unfortunate haircut.He feels fantastic today, actually.--A series of loosely related one-shots, loosely following canon, loosely based on the prompts for Brufonse Week 2019 on Tumblr.





	1. childhood

**Author's Note:**

> i just really wanted to make the first chapter fluffy okay, LET ME BELIEVE THEY WERE HAPPY AT SOME POINT!!!!!!
> 
> i'll add tags and shit as i go along, its literally 3am and i JUST finished typing this on my phone good fucking night.
> 
> (also a lot more dialogue in a chapter than im used to. yay?)

He can pinpoint the moment he isn't as alone walking down the hall as he started off. There's nothing particularly subtle about it -- he can hear boots on stone and carpet, the faint rattle of armor, even the rhythmic _thock_ of the lance coming and going with the other person's footsteps. Familiar enough that he fights back a smile and calls out.

"Is that your best attempt at stealth?"

"Of course not." Zacharias shoots back without a second's pause, equally amused. Maybe a tad smug. "But do I need it, with you?"

It's a good tactic. Zacharias leans in close, maybe closer than is strictly proper but not entirely unusual for them, speaks slow and easy, and flashes a charming smile, tilting his head just so, in order to let the silvery stands of his hair frame his -- well, no two ways about it -- handsome face. It could have worked. It has worked, admittedly, in the past and Alfonse can't make any promises that it won't again.

Zacharias knows what he looks like, seeing as he owns a mirror (and in Alfonse's educated opinion may be overly attached to it), and figured out long ago that it can be an advantage. Unfortunately, he's trying it on someone who knew him before and during the time his voice broke. On his best days, Alfonse is as good as immune to it. He need only pick one out of a lifetime of ridiculous memories, and one unfortunate haircut.

He feels fantastic today, actually.

Alfonse points one accusing finger at Zacharias, who leans back in tandem. That smile only grows. Nothing good can come of that.

"You've done something." He says, as firm as he can.

"I live a busy life, your highness. Might I ask you to be more specific than that?" He leans on his lance, loose and relaxed. Suspiciously so, one might say. "Of late it's your sister's training that takes up most of my time. You would be surprised at the progress she's making."

"I really wouldn't, no." Alfonse mumbles, wincing. Sharena has been... Overeager with their sparring, as she tends to be about most things. Then, louder, "But that's not the point."

Zacharias quirks an eyebrow at him, as if to say _what **is** the point? _

Alfonse takes a single step forward, bringing them even closer. He tries for intimidating. Zacharias tries and fails to hold back a chuckle.

"I know you--"

"--Better than my own mother, I've always said."

"I've had to get you out of trouble of your own making enough times to know when you are up to no good."

"The benefits of friends in high places, yes?" Zacharias is visibly uncomfortable now, staring down the end of the hall. Alfonse is too distracted to notice.

"You can't have dragged Sharena into --whatever it is you're doing now, then there really would be no chance of hiding it..." He loves his sister, of course, but she has never excelled in subtlety.

"Astute as ever, yes, but wouldn't you rather talk elsewhere?" Zacharias makes a show of looking around, but really. He has had a penchant for theatrics for as long as Alfonse's has known him. "In that room, perhaps?"

Alfonse follows the jerky nod of his towards the other end of the hall, to a single, plain door.

"There's nothing there," he shakes his head absently, "only spare equipment for the... Guards?"

Ah.

Realization hits at about the same time another pair of footsteps becomes louder -- and, perhaps, angrier. He doesn't get a chance to turn and see if his first guess is correct. Zacharias drags him to the storage room exactly as he dragged him to closets, and guest rooms, and the kitchens, and on one memorable occasion his mother's own chambers. Always followed by stomping feet and the grumblings of _where has he gone off to, now._

This is a lesson he ought to have learned years ago, to not let himself be caught up in his friend's games of banter and plausible deniability and, as always, end up an unwilling accomplice. Clearly, Zacharias is sharper than Alfonse will ever be: he simply covers the prince's mouth with his hand to muffle the hissed "I knew it!"

Not nearly fast enough, but he knew it. He levels a deep frown on Zacharias, the same he would use on Sharena when she pushes her greens on his plate and excuses herself from the table before he can say anything about it. Cut from the same cloth, the two of them, and he's the one who has to deal with it.

"You're supposed to be on guard!" He hisses, with as much venom as he can muster while pressed up against Zacharias. Unnecessarily close, again. There's plenty of room among the dusty old breastplates and dull blades and the odd bucket.

"Am I?" Is all Zacharias has to say for himself, the bastard. He leans forward and down towards Alfonse's face, and the prince has better things to do than pay any mind to his burning cheeks.

Before Alfonse can tell him exactly what he thinks of that, he barrels on through with, "When I have you right here?"

That shuts him up. For half a second, perhaps, but half a second too long if that annoying, insufferable, not-the-least-bit-charming grin is anything to go by.

"That's not going to work and you know it." Alfonse grumbles.

"I'll second that." Says a sharp, pointed knock on the door, right before it flies open.

Anna gets perhaps a second too get out of the way before Zacharias himself is flying out -- but he takes the time to tap his thumb on Alfonse's chin before he is well out of the reach of Anna's axe. Not so far that he can't hear her yelling after him, or for them hear him laugh in the face of certain doom.

Alfonse stays very still after that. It's the good and princely thing to do, to act like the very definition of decorum in any situation. Certainly, he doesn't bring a hand up to gently feel his chin.

Anna just stares, and with a disgusted scoff she's off as well. Alfonse can't say that, in all honesty, he doesn't deserve it.


	2. distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this uhhhh sure turned out Like This. longer than expected, specially considering it was supposed to be just the first section but a little more detailed, kind of not quite chronological, and just in general very "wade past midnight". i like it tho!
> 
> chapter warnings: grief/mourning (even if we all know zruno is alive and not quite kicking), non graphic descriptions of injuries, non graphic descriptions of violence, alfonse's descent into the repressed little hobbit he is in current canon, and a startling lack of zruno for a brufonse fic.

It hurts. All it comes down to is two words.

The ache in his body is more than he can ever remember feeling; no grueling training drills, no sore muscles, no childhood stumble compares. He knows, of course, that the injuries are barely half of it. The pull of torn flesh at his back is an entirely different sort of pain. It can be managed, and with enough time spent under the healing staves of the priests, ignored.

But magic can only do so much, and Alfonse sincerely doubts it could ease him of the weight he pushes through on trembling legs.

Behind, he can hear Anna calling out to him. Come back to the tent, she says, let the healers do their work. You won't accomplish anything in this state that you couldn't while fully functional. Sharena calls out another name, the same that is lodged in his throat.

If he could find the word, if he could yell the name loud enough, then maybe--

He can't remember, that's the problem.

He can't remember the piercing pain at his back, or the spear tip that left the gash following the line of his neck, or laying face-down in the middle of a battlefield until he was found. Just him, that is. He has flashes instead: a warm in hand in his before the fight, a hug from his sister (for good luck, she said), Anna loud and booming. And then, chaos.

And then, they were surrounded, but he found nothing precarious about the situation. How could he, with Zacharias at his back?

Then there was nothing. Then he woke up. Then he ran, out of the healer's tent, as soon as Sharena gave him the news: no body, no weapon, no nothing.

So, it hurts, yes. But it isn't the warm wetness running down his back that makes him cry out.

* * *

"I think it's about hope?" Kiran tells him and Sharena, years later. They toss Breidablik from hand to hand, distracted, as they gather their thoughts.

When no more words come -- when Alfonse has to physically hold himself back from reaching for the precious, irreplaceable weapon to set it carefully on the table between them -- Sharena looks at him and shrugs.

"Hope?" He prompts. He hopes for a direct answer, but Kiran is... Spacey on the best of days.

It brings them down to earth, at least.

"Right! So. I don't know what I'm doing here half the time." Both Sharena and himself sit up, but Kiran speaks over them before the siblings can reassure them of how invaluable their help has been. "And I don't think it's just about pulling the trigger, either. Anyone can do that, right?"

"I don't know about that." Sharena says with a hint of a frown. "None of us knew what to do with Breidablik before you came along."

"Well, you know, in my world it's kind of-- Anyway. What I mean is, we don't know what we're going to get before I actually pull the trigger." They shake Breidablik about, as if to illustrate their point. "We can only hope it'll be someone helpful, right?"

Sharena hums, until the bright smile she is known for lights up her face. Kiran gives her a matching grin from under their hood. Alfonse, for his part, grips the hilt of his sword just a little tighter.

"If there's infinite worlds out there," Kiran says, quietly, privately, "then that's a lot of great possibilities. That's what I think."

What Alfonse thinks is that, perhaps, he isn't following this conversation as well as his sister.

* * *

Anna pushes and prods and not so subtly questions him until she has to concede defeat, when Alfonse makes it unequivocally clear that he does not wish to talk about it, any of it, for the foreseeable future.

Sharena is not so quiet in her grief. Alfonse can't, and wouldn't, berate her for it. If she were not an open book, readily inviting all who want to know her, she wouldn't be herself. She would be like her brother instead: the edge of a dull blade, turned rusty by time and lack of care. Hidden away in the library, in his room, in the training grounds, in the battlefield, in himself. Anywhere but where he can be seen by anyone, including himself.

He tells himself this is the only way he can breathe easy. Eventually, he believes it.

* * *

Ike comes into their world to the sound of Kiran's cheering, and makes it clear in exactly zero words that he would like some answers. Alfonse takes it upon himself to answer them while Anna and Sharena introduce themselves to the Order's potential new recruits.

"And my job here is _done_." Kiran claps, loud in the relative silence of the ruins. They fan Breidablik with one hand, though Alfonse doubts that will make the weapon cool off faster. It is such a finicky thing.

With the most diplomatic voice he can muster, the one he saves for meetings with nobles and his father, he informs Ike that he may have all the answers he wants if only he will follow the members of the Order plus their small entourage to the castle. It isn't far, of course, and far more comfortable than speaking out in the open.

It is, he suspects, the wrong thing to do.

Ike gives him a long, searching look, staying completely silent. His face darkens, if it were possible. Coupled with the hero's impressive height, no one could be blamed for wavering. Alfonse doesn't.

After the long silence, all he has to say is, "lead the way."

* * *

Sharena will be Sharena, no matter what. This he knows, and it is something that brings him comfort when nothing else will. Sharena is also incessantly cheerful, something that he berates himself over more than her, when he can't find the energy to match hers.

It is spring, and Sharena is never happier than when the flowers bloom.

He takes to the library more often when he feels the seasons changing. This isn't a secret by any means, least of all one he can keep from his own family -- at least those that care enough to notice. When the Spring Festival decorations come up; when the days turn hot and long; when the autumn fruit is ripe; and when the winter covers Askr, Alfonse takes comfort in his books and avoids empty, old rooms. Avoids most things and people, if he had to be honest.

Sharena, of course, refuses to be ignored. She presses, even when he turns her down firmly; when he makes it clear he is perfectly fine with his stuffy old books; when he wishes her a good day at the festival; when he expertly ignores her pouty eyes; when he slams the book on the hard wood of the desk, the violence of it echoing in the library, when he asks, finally, why can't she let him be, if he wants to be miserable then is that not his damm right?

He doesn't so much sit as deflate. She is quiet, for once, and he pushes down the shame. Meeting her eyes is the least he can do.

"I'm sorry."

He is. He meant every word, and he is sorry.

Taking his limp wrist in her hand, she pulls him up and out into the hall.

"Just for that," she says, not bothering to wipe her tears, "you get to wear the costume this year."

"That's -- a bit much, isn't it? Sharena?"

* * *

The holy sword Ragnell is somehow more impressive than Alfonse's studies lead him to believe. Ike handles it with respect, if not the reverence it is owed. It is as much a part of his body as Alfonse's own blade. It sits on his back, looming over the two of them while Ike processes Alfonse's words.

"If you know so much, then you know why I left." Ike says at last.

He sits at a bench in the mess hall, and the furniture looks comically small next to him. He'd asked for a meal not long after arriving, and would offer no more words until he was done. Not -- uncourteous, exactly, but certainly rough around the edges. That is how Alfonse has come to see him in this short time. Quite frankly, it is a relief.

"I don't pretend to understand, but... Yes, I know enough." Alfonse chose to stand, both to be able to look Ike in the eyes and to keep a certain degree of distance.

"But you're asking anyway."

Without missing a beat, Alfonse tells him, "yes."

Ike... Sighs. It is a full body motion that almost seems to shave a few inches off his total height. He pushes the plates away to set Ragnell in their place, and now the sword is really nothing more than a tool. A heavy one, at that.

"You are free to leave." Alfonse tells him. "The gate to your world is still open. We can escort you back to the ruins, and--"

Ike stands.

"This Embla. They want something from you?"

Alfonse has to swallow before he replies.

"The young princess leads the armies. I can't imagine -- what she could want so badly from Askr that she would take it by force."

"There's always a reason." Ike scoffs. "Just never a good one."

Alfonse follows his eyes down to the golden blade. Heavy and cold, now that it lays alone on the wooden table. There is no visible change, but it comes alive in Ike's hand when he sheathes it again.

"If I'm going to fight this war, there's someone I need at my side." Ike says, solemn even for a man so serious. "And if you want to win it, you'll definitely need him."

Alfonse feels a tug at his heart. Perhaps...

Not meeting his eyes, Alfonse explains the difficulty of summoning a specific person. There's nothing precise about the rite, however--

"Our summoner is always up for a challenge." He pours as much confidence in those words as he can.

Ike nods. He understands, of course, and he will wait. Perhaps the two of them aren't so different.


	3. battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> book 3 amirite (audience groans)

Alfonse calls out to the prince - uselessly, though he feels he has been chasing this man for years now.

He picks himself up off the ground and runs as fast as his slowly freezing feet will take him. The chill of the ice spell digs into his bones and makes him weary, his muscles stiff, his clothes soaked. The weight of the cape threatens to drag him back down. A tremor shakes him from head to toe.

There is so much telling him to stop, to give up, to let his numb fingers finally lose their grip on his blade, but-

The prince laughs, sharp and cruel and much too loud. Despite its sting, some delusional part of Alfonse's mind tells him: _you know this smile, the shape of it, the echo you've heard in every dream and waking moment now. You know this smile._

Folkvangr is steady in his grip, against his better judgement.

* * *

_"I need you to tell them - to warn them-"_

_"What?”_

_"Princess Veronica is not your enemy. The true threat-"_

_"No, you've got it all wrong. She tried to kill me! I'm pretty sure she's going to try to kill you next."_

* * *

It could be commander Anna, or Sharena, or the summoner, or his own bloody father that calls out him not to give chase, but he quickly leaves them in the dust. Even with the cold numbness spreading through his body, making him slow and clumsy, there's this raw and hungry energy driving him forward. It's a mindless thing, and he gives himself to it, lets the prince's goading be the only thing he truly hears.

He stumbles and runs and stumbles again because-

The searching and the fledgeling hope and the desperate hunt for clues and hints - it has to end, at some point. There has to be a moment when they can finally put this matter to rest, to decide: will there be a funeral? Or a celebration?

A flash of white hair in the wind. He has seen this before.

* * *

_"I can't even see you."_

_"And you won't."_

_"So I'm supposed to just trust you? Tell the others to trust the word of some weirdo who won't even show his face? I don't see that going down well."_

_"Tell them my name and they will. Tell them - I'm sure they remember it."_

* * *

He remembers, quite suddenly, Ike eyeing him strangely before they arrived here to find the prince and his soldiers. But the prince was changed, and his soldiers wary of him.

And Ike - he gave Alfonse the look of a man who saw into a mirror and didn't like his reflection.

Nothing in Alfonse's stance or demeanor gave anything away: no hint of the barely restrained anger-grief-hollowness, the simply wrong feeling of having to pry answers from a self proclaimed murderer who took everything from Alfonse and his sister and had the gall to gloat about it.

Alfonse understands this is what Ike saw less than an hour ago, and decided to do nothing about it, because there was nothing he could do.

Perhaps, Alfonse thinks as he rolls out of the way of another ice blast, having tasted revenge is something they will share after this is over.

* * *

_"This gate will take you back to your group. Hurry - it won't hold for much longer."_

_"You could come too, you know."_

_"..."_

_"They're waiting for you, too."_

_"Let them."_

* * *

Another pair of footsteps is approaching fast, but Alfonse almost doesn't catch it over the blood rushing in his ears.

His muscles and lungs burn with exertion, while the rest of his body fades away to tunnel vision. The prince - the only thing in his sights, a shape so clear and the rhythm of his movements a dance Alfonse swears he knows by heart - is in no better condition.

Under the armor, fabric and feathers, he feels the cold just as strongly. Alfonse takes advantage of this.

The prince goes down, his ice tome pushed far out of reach. Folkvangr comes down hard, inches from his neck.

Anna and Sharena have caught up with them, just as out of breath as Alfonse, holding himself above the prince with little more than his sword and desperation.

"Tell me the _truth._"

Kiran comes in last, and they do just that.

* * *

_"I could just tell them."_

_"No."_

_"Look, maybe I don't know the full story here, but I'm starting to think they don't, either."_

_"And it will **stay** that way."_

_"Why? What's the point?"_

_"That is none of your concern-"_

_"Do you have any idea how long they've been looking for you? How long they waited? Hey, **ow**, let go-"_

_"I know **precisely** how long. Now **go**."_

* * *

This is the sound of overwhelming horror and relief fighting each other: Folkvangr falls to the floor with a clatter; Sharena cups her hands to her mouth, too late to muffle a sharp intake; Noatun cuts through the air, and while Anna never lets go of her axe it's a close thing as she drops her eyes to her hands; Kiran breathing fast and choppy with exhaustion. The prince laughs, the furthest sound from mirth.

Alfonse throws himself backwards like he has been burned. Relief isn't for him, but horror is another matter altogether.

There is a man before him that he has never met but knows better than he knows himself. His hair was longer the last Alfonse saw him, his smile warm and freely given, his hands a comfortable weight in Alfonse's own. He told Alfonse once: _you're a bastard, never change. _

He did change. They both did, it seems.

Zacharias rises with a difficulty that sickens Alfonse. His armor is cracked along the collar, and red drips down to the floor. It freezes on contact. The ice-

It explodes out of the ground in deadly spikes. Raw, instinctual movement keeps Alfonse from getting skewered, and by the time he fully understands how he got from over there to almost falling into his sister's arms, the prince is gone.


End file.
